I gotta tell ya, the rat race is thriving in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.  I know this because sometimes, I sprout whiskers, and on my worst days, a tail long enough to be worthy of a subway track in Brooklyn.  I also know this because every day of the week, I get behind the wheel of my car and drive somewhere. I might not go far.  In fact, some days I only drive the two miles to and from the kids’ school.  Still, there is evidence of the rat race at every red light I hit in that two mile stretch, and it has little to do with the array of expensive SUV’s stopped both in front of and behind me.  No, it isn’t the fact that despite ridiculously high gas prices and the sad reality of global warming, one out of every three cars in Atlanta is one of the biggest cars on the market.  It’s the mobile resumes displayed ON the cars that remind me the “keep up with the Jones’” mentality is alive and well in my hometown.

You’ve seen those mobile resumes I'm speaking of, haven’t you?  You know . . . the stickers.  Yes, those stickers all over the sides and backs of cars presenting tell-all declarations about the people inside.  There will probably be a collection of family stick figure stickers on the bottom left or right corner of the back windshield, so you’ll want to look for those first.  That way you’ll know exactly how many people are in the family riding around in front of you. In my neck of the woods, the stickers might show a father carrying a golf bag, a mother holding a tennis racquet, a boy with a soccer ball at his feet, a girl in a tutu, and a baby with a bottle in his hand.  You’ll know the baby is a boy, by the way, because he is wearing a blue diaper.  Of course, the display doesn’t end with the announcement that the car holds a family of five that includes two adults and three children.  There are important details to notice as well.  The stickers might show the non-human members of the family.  Some even show the adults wearing shirts or holding banners with their college teams written on them.  I can pull up behind a Honda Odyssey at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle and immediately discover that the family riding in front of me is comprised of a dad who graduated from Auburn, a mom who graduated from Florida, twin boys who play football, a little girl who likes gymnastics, a dog, two cats, five goldfish, and a hamster. 

But wait . . . there’s more.  If the red light is long enough, and in metro Atlanta they usually are, you will likely get to know even more about the family who is introducing themselves from the back of their car – simply look at the rest of their stickers.  Within seconds, you will learn that someone in the family has completed a marathon, someone in the family likes to cycle, and no one in the family voted for Obama.  Another couple of stickers and you’ll know where the kids in the family go to school, whether or not those kids are in the honors program at their school, and whether or not their parents donated money to the annual fund at their school.  Keep looking and you’ll find out what sports the kids in the family participate in (and whether or not they made the all-star team), where the family likes to go to church, and the family’s favorite spot to vacation, IF you can figure out what those pesky initials stand for.  Amazing.  All that knowledge about a family gleaned from a collection of stickers on the rear windshield of an automobile. 

Atlanta is full of these mobile family resumes and I enjoy seeing them.  I really do.  Honestly, if I didn’t have that OCD issue I’ve mentioned in many of my previous posts, I might even have a few stickers displayed on the back window of my own SUV.  But alas, that OCD just won’t go away and stickers on the back of my car would just look like clutter to me.  I HATE clutter.  Still, I get a kick out of reading the resumes I see as I’m driving around town each day.  Sometimes I’d like to smile and wave at the family in front of me because I think we must have a lot in common.  I want to roll down my window and shout, “Hey there!  So nice to meet your family.  I used to go to your church and we thought about sending our kids to the same school your kids go to and what do you think of lacrosse because my son’s been asking to play and congratulations on your alma mater’s new football coach and are you training for another marathon because I’ve always wanted to run one myself and I’ve been to Amelia Island too but it was years ago and . . .”

Of course, then the light changes and everyone has to get where they need to go.  I step on the accelerator and move on, never knowing if I will see that particular family at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle again.

I think the real reason I enjoy reading these mobile resumes, however, is because they help me remember I’m not alone.  The stickers remind me there are thousands of other women in my community trying to do the best they can as wives and mothers.  They remind me I’m not the only one trying to find balance in my own life and create it in the lives of my children.  Most importantly, they remind me of my intrinsic need to connect with others – to mean something.

Why are we so desperate for significance?  I’m not talking about a quest for love here, folks.  I think most of us get plenty of love.  Our parents love us, our husbands love us, our children love us, our friends love us.  Yet, despite the fact that we are well-loved by the people who matter most, we still have this burning desire to tell others . . . strangers even . . . who we are and what we’ve done and where we’ve been. 

Please don’t think I’m pointing fingers.  I mean, I totally am, but only when looking in the mirror.  Trust me.  I get it.  There are a zillion informative blogs out there about cooking and health and party planning and parenting and furniture and fashion and decorating.  I’m writing a blog about nothing, for goodness sake, so if anyone gets it, I do.  I may not have stickers on my car creating a colorful billboard about my life, but I want someone . . . anyone . . . to find me interesting or funny or helpful or at the very least, memorable.  I want to be seen.  I want to be noticed.  I want to be known.  The question is . . . why?

Why do I have this desperate ache to find significance through the eyes of others when I’m significant in the eyes of God?  Why do I feel the need to earn the approval and acceptance of people I might never meet when the one who created me approves of and accepts me the way I am?  Why do I want strangers to know things about me when the only one who knows everything about me, even the dark and dirty yuck that resides in my heart, loves me more than anyone else ever can? 

I will never be significant enough to others.  They have their own aches and needs and wants and dark and dirty yuck.  But I will ALWAYS be significant to Him. 

Psalm 139:1-4 says, O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.  You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.  You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.  Before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely, O Lord.

Romans 8:38 says . . . neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.   

These two verses seem so contradictory to me.  I mean seriously, how can God know me so well and yet, still love me that much?  He sees me when I judge strangers.  He sees me when I’m insensitive to my husband.  He sees me when I’m impatient with my kids.  He sees me when I envy my friends.  He sees me.  He notices me.  He knows me.  And yet . . . He loves me?  He loves me anyway?

If I could kick this OCD issue of mine and create a mobile resume on my own car, my stickers would be just like all the others – they would be about the things I hold dear – my children, our church, vacation, family.  My husband would have a golf club in his hand and I would have on workout gear.  My son would hold a lacrosse stick and my daughter would be in a leotard.  I would even have a dog sticker, much to my own surprise.  

But my stickers would never tell the people driving around Atlanta with me who I really am.  They might see that I’m a mother, learn where my kids attend school, and discover how much I love visiting Lake Oconee, but a mobile resume would never make the one declaration that truly matters.  I would need a different sticker for that.  I would need a sticker that said “Child of God.”  Because that’s what I am.  That’s all I’ll ever be.  And it’s enough. 

It’s enough to be significant to Him.

As a former teacher, I’m allowed to say this. I do not believe teachers can possibly understand the power they hold in regards to the lives of the children they teach. Yes, I’ve been out of the classroom longer than I was in it at this point - I taught kindergarten and reading for seven years and Charlie is nine – but I believe seven years in an early childhood classroom, along with a master’s degree, warrants at least some expertise when it comes to education. Still, until my own children began attending school, I did not comprehend the magnitude of the role teachers play in the development of their students.

I was a good teacher. Some might even say I was a great one. My principal called me one of the best teachers he’d ever seen and people, he was old; he’d seen a lot. He told me dozens of parents sent him notes every summer requesting him to place their children in my class. He asked me to share lesson plans with veteran teachers, mentor first year teachers, serve as the grade chairperson, and pilot new curriculum. I had complete confidence in myself in the classroom. I believed my students were in an excellent educational environment. I still do.

I found success in the classroom. I taught my students to read, write, add and subtract. I taught them to recognize vowels, consonants, blends, and rhyming words. I taught them to count syllables, measure inches, and hypothesize results. I taught them the differences between cities, states, and countries. I taught them the differences between periods, questions marks, and exclamation points. I taught them to raise their hands to speak, to use polite manners, to take turns on the playground, to share toys during center time. I taught them, and I taught them, and I taught them. For one-hundred and eighty days I taught them, and I know I taught them well.

Now that I have my own children, however, I realize my job as a kindergarten teacher didn’t have much at all to do with teaching. My job as a kindergarten teacher was to help my students love themselves and love learning, and those are some serious responsibilities my friends. There’s a whole lot more that goes into nurturing the spirit of a child than creating dynamic lesson plans and engaging activities and quality assignments. Yes, teaching skills is both necessary and important, and it occurs every day in classrooms all over the world, but training a child to acknowledge their self-worth and the worth of others is a major undertaking. Making a notable impact on a child’s heart is more than a career choice. It’s a lofty goal, a significant objective, a chosen mindset . . . a purpose.

As a parent, I have witnessed the influence a teacher can have on a child from an entirely different perspective. Now, I can fully understand the weight of the words teachers speak, the behaviors they model, and the values they impart. Next to my husband and me, our children spend the majority of their time with their teachers. And Charlie and Libby won’t simply learn to multiply, divide, and proofread from these people. They will learn to express their ideas, thoughts, and feelings. They will learn to separate facts from opinions. They will learn how to respond to challenges and how to encourage their peers. They will learn organization and planning and patience and determination and perseverance and the power of a positive attitude. Most importantly, they will learn how to love themselves and how to treat others.

I enjoyed being with kids from an early age. In fact, most of my jobs as an adolescent involved caring for or instructing young children – I was a babysitter, I gave swimming lessons, I coached gymnastics. I suppose my journey into the field of education was a natural choice, but I can’t say I felt led into it. I just ended up there. Still, I loved teaching. I adored my students and found great joy in witnessing them master new skills and concepts. I look back on my years in the classroom with happy memories and little guilt, as I’m certain I taught my students in ways I want my own children to be taught – I used an uplifting, hands-on approach and tons of positive reinforcement. Yet, I know without a doubt that I wasn’t aware of the power I wielded when I was an educator. I simply didn’t realize my ability to change the course of a child’s day, or quite possibly, his life, with a look, a word, a touch.

If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t worry so much about whether my students could identify digraphs and dipthongs. Heck, I bet most people I know don’t have a clue what those words mean. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I remember the difference?!? No, I wouldn’t focus on the teaching of skills if I could revisit my former students.

I would focus on the training of hearts.

I would play more. I would giggle more. I would listen more. I would hug more.

I wouldn’t stop at vowing to say one positive thing about each child every day. I would find a dozen things, and say them a dozen times. I would notice when a student got a new outfit or a new haircut or a new pencil, because the things we find irrelevant have infinite meaning for a child. And I wouldn’t strive to let parents know whether their children had successfully mastered a list of skills; I would strive to let them know what I witnessed in their child’s character, because in the end, isn’t that what really matters?

My children are in an amazing school with incredible teachers. My kindergartner knows all about the planets and my third grader can tell me the difference between a digraph and a dipthong (and when he gets home, I’m going to ask him what it is because for the life of me I can’t remember!). But that’s not why I’m grateful for the teachers in my children’s lives. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who care about them long after they leave their classroom. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who pray for them, and for their school, on a daily basis. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who send bones home in a little baggie when they hear about our family’s new puppy. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who stand outside on a cold December morning to sing “Silent Night” to their students as they walk in from the carpool line.

Teachers are vital. They are imperative. They are invaluable, inestimable, incalculable. They are central, critical, crucial. Teachers are priceless, and I can only hope that if I ever enter a classroom as a teacher again, I will remember exactly what it means to stand in front of a group of children, and hold their hearts in my hands.

Oh Charlie, tomorrow you will turn nine. How can that be? I’m not old enough to have a nine-year-old child, am I? Did I miss something? You mean my twenties are already gone? But . . . where did they go? My thirties are half over? GASP.

Okay. It’s fine. I’m breathing again. I feel the air moving in and out of my lungs and that has to mean I’m breathing. I feel the kitchen chair beneath me. I hear the dishwasher making its wet assault behind me. I smell the puppy at my feet. I see your lacrosse cleats on the floor and your picture on the counter and I recall the warmth of your forehead against mine as we snuggled in your bed an hour ago and . . . I know it’s true. It really is just as I thought. Tomorrow, you will turn nine. Oh Charlie. How can that be?

I cannot recall a moment in my life when I didn’t want to be your mother. I remember every detail of the moment I discovered I was pregnant with you. I can picture the room I was in, the clothes I was wearing, the things surrounding me. It was the first time I ever fell to my knees to thank God. Tears streamed down my face. Tears of joy and anticipation and gratitude and an immediate love I didn’t even know was possible.

I had plans to meet your dad for dinner, so I pulled myself together and headed out the door with a newfound fear of being behind the wheel of an automobile. I was carrying a baby and suddenly, every act of living took on new meaning. I made a quick stop on my way to the restaurant for my first purchase as a pregnant woman. I bought a blue and white bib that said, “I love my Daddy,” all the while formulating plans in my mind about how to tell my husband we were going to be parents.

I made it through our dinner together without a word about my discovery – I couldn’t share such special news in a crowded restaurant. My hands shook and my stomach fluttered with nervous energy the entire meal, and every bite I took had a purpose never before understood. I was no longer eating salmon and spinach because I enjoyed it. I was eating it to nourish the child within.

Once home, I asked your daddy to sit outside with me on our back patio. I watched his expression transform from confusion to curiosity as I handed him the baby bib. When his eyes met mine, I answered his silent question with a simple nod.

Yes, our prayers have been answered. Yes, our dreams are coming true. Yes, we are going to have a baby.

Statistics claim 75% of women experience nausea during pregnancy. Leave it to me to stick with the majority. My first trimester involved a great deal of time spent on the couch, in a horizontal position, in my robe. It also involved some highly questionable food choices. Some days, all I could eat were Pringles. Other days, I could stomach only watermelon. There were days of chicken broth, vegetable soup, tomatoes, tater tots, saltines, and plain pasta. My doctor claimed my all day morning sickness would go away in my second trimester. It didn’t. He told me to continue eating whatever I could handle and not worry too much. I worried anyway.

When I wasn’t eating or worrying, I was reading. And by reading I actually mean I was devouring any and all information I could possibly find on pregnancy. I knew exactly when your fingernails began to grow in my womb. I knew how much weight you were supposed to be gaining each week of every month of all three trimesters. I also knew very early on that you were a boy. I didn’t tell a soul, but I was positive our first-born was going to be a son.

On the morning of our twenty-week ultrasound, I wore a blue shirt in honor of the baby boy I believed was growing inside of me. I lied on my back, gripping your daddy’s hand, wondering why no one had told me how much concern you can have for someone you’ve never even met. And when that nurse (her name was Mary) turned the computer screen towards me and I saw your precious profile in a grainy black and white image forever etched in my mind, I fell madly in love with everything about you. Instantly, I memorized the upturn of your nose and the fullness of your lips and the curve of your forehead. You were always my baby, but at that moment, you became my heart. You became my son. You became our Charlie.

We decorated your room, painting the walls just the right shade of blue. Your father spent hours refinishing a piece of furniture to use as your changing table. We attended childbirth classes and baby showers. I washed tiny pieces of clothing and hung them according to size in your closet. We put together all sorts of strange looking, brightly colored equipment guaranteed to carry, bounce, swing and soothe. We picked out birth announcements and visited pediatricians and scoured consumer reports for the safest car seats on the market. Your daddy put your crib together . . . twice. On his first attempt, he assembled it outside your room. Turns out cribs don’t fit through doors.

And then, on a cold night in the middle of February, my water broke and the pain came and we rushed to the hospital and the doctor said it was time and at the perfect moment . . . at the exact moment God planned for you to entire our lives . . . you arrived.

Oh Charlie. You came crashing into our world with the softest of cries and the chubbiest of arms and the sweetest, most mesmerizing face on the entire planet. And our existence instantly became an incredible journey we could never have imagined. The journey that takes a human heart and links it to another in a way that is so complete, so certain and true, it can only be described as a forever purpose of love.

It has been an amazing journey; one filled with all the things we expected; laughter, anticipation, learning, surprise, hope, joy, pride, fear, concern, disappointment, sorrow, prayer. But most of all, it has been a forever purpose of love. Loving our child with everything we have and with all that we are. Loving him in every moment, in every circumstance, in the very best ways we know how.

Oh Charlie. I love you so much. I will love you forever. I will love you no matter what. And I’m glad you’re turning nine tomorrow. Because that means I have had three-thousand two-hundred and eighty-five days with the most wonderful boy I’ve ever known.

I pray for thousands more.

Eighteen pairs of eyes focused on her and I could see the instant flush in her cheeks. She walked forward and took her seat in the single chair at the front of the room, her chosen book in hand. She looked terrified. Well, she also looked totally and completely adorable, but as her mother, I could definitely tell she was anxious about the experience ahead. Her legs swung back and forth in constant motion as the nervous energy released itself. I smiled and nodded my head in her direction, attempting to convey my parental encouragement without the use of words.

She started a bit fast and a little quiet, but after a page or two, she settled in. Her pace slowed and her voiced strengthened. She wasn’t as expressive as she would have been in her room at home, without an audience of five year olds surrounding her, but she sounded good . . . solid. She sounded like the fluent reader she was.

Secure in my daughter’s strong start, I pulled out my phone and began recording, a huge grin permanently stretched across my face as I tried to hold the phone steady. I hadn’t realized my hands were shaking, my own anxiety forcing its way through the confidence I’d tried so hard to emit on our drive over.

Truthfully, I didn’t think she’d do it, and hey, I had my reasons. Reason number one: I've listened to my daughter belt out songs at the top of her lungs for weeks around our house and then stand on stage for her school Christmas program like a deer . . . ahem, a reindeer . . . in headlights. Reason number two: Libby once spent several days with the varsity cheerleaders at her school preparing to participate in the homecoming pep rally along with most of the other girls in her kindergarten class. On the day of the pep rally, however, our little cheerleader turned into a chicken, and those pom poms of hers never did make it out on that gym floor. Reason number three: My daughter's teacher asked Libby to read aloud to her for months before she finally agreed to do it, and when she did agree, she chose a book with four words in it.

Sure, my little girl can talk a big game. She's always been very good at making plans. What she's not always so good at, is following through with her plans, especially if they involve getting up in front of an audience. So when Libby told me she wanted to accept an invitation to read to the students now inhabiting her former preschool classroom, forgive me if I was skeptical. VERY skeptical.

I stalled on getting the visit scheduled. I told her we should wait until after Thanksgiving. Then I told her we should wait until after Christmas. Then, low and behold, there was an email in my inbox in early January from Libby’s former teachers. They wanted to set a date and I was out of reasons to stall.

My daughter was thrilled when I told her the plans were made and she was going to read in her old classroom on a Friday morning near the end of the month. She knew exactly what book she would take: "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby." Never mind that the humor would likely be over the heads of the audience. Never mind that the book was part of a collection and therefore quite heavy. Never mind that the illustrations were much too small to see from a distance. Never mind that the story was a lengthy one. My daughter loved "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby" and she knew she could read it well. And she did read it well. Very well, in fact.

Right up to the point where she got stuck.

It was the longest word in the story. It was a word rarely spoken and a word I've never seen in another book. It was a word I likely “edited” when I read this particular book to Libby in the past, as it wasn’t a word I cared to hear my child repeat. It was the word ‘tarnation.’ Seriously, who says that word? You drop a jar on your foot and you yell ‘TARNATION!’ Yea, I didn’t think so. Maybe your great grandmother used that word down in south Georgia a century ago, but today, it's not a common expletive, at least not in these parts.

Yet . . . Amelia Bedelia uses the word ‘tarnation.’ And now, my daughter was sitting in front of eighteen people, trying desperately to determine what to do because she had come to a word in the book she was reading aloud that she didn’t know or wasn’t sure she should say.

As mothers, we’ve all had those moments. You know, the ones where you feel as if someone is actually reaching into your chest, grabbing hold of your heart, and twisting it as tightly as they possibly can. Well, this was one of those moments. I was twenty feet away from my daughter as I watched her face contort in confusion. I saw the look of panic in her eyes and the quiver of her lip as helplessness began to consume her. The alarm sounded inside my head and I felt hot beads of sweat begin to form as every ounce of blood in my body rushed to the surface of my skin. I could see flashing red lights around me, all of them screaming the same dire message.

RESCUE! RESCUE! RESCUE your daughter!

I opened my mouth but no words came.

What should I do? What can I say? How do I help her?

I'm sure no more than two or three seconds passed as this event played out that Friday morning in Libby’s old preschool class. My daughter stumbled, just for a moment, and struggled to get back on her feet, something she does on a daily basis . . . something we all do on a daily basis. And yet, the familiar rush of emotions that overtook my being as I witnessed it was torturous. It was physically painful to watch my child sitting on the brink of failure with a crowd observing.

I didn’t rescue Libby. The teacher, who was sitting just a few feet away, jumped to action and helped my daughter with the word she didn’t know how to say. I was already a big fan of that teacher. Now, she’s one of my heroes.

The rest of the read aloud went perfectly. Libby recovered quickly and went on to finish the book as if she’d been reading to a classroom full of students for years. She was so proud of herself as she skipped down the hall and back to our car just minutes later, and I felt so grateful to be her mother. Still, I will forever remember that moment when my heart twisted inside my chest while watching my daughter flounder to get out of a situation she didn't want to be in. I’ll never forget the overwhelming intensity of emotions in my soul as I observed my child hanging on for dear life.

Oh, I'm certain I’ll have those feelings again. As the mother of two children, my heart will likely be caught in that vice grip of concern many, many times in the years ahead, and I imagine it will never get any less difficult to witness my children in the throes of their discomfort. In all honesty, as much as it hurts, I want my children to have some challenging experiences in their lives. They need to know what it's like to suffer embarrassment and heartache and helplessness, or else how will they learn to empathize with others? How will they learn to ask for help? How will they learn to trust in the only one who will always be there when they need Him?

I suppose, as a parent, all I can do is hope and pray that there will always be loving and supportive people nearby when my children are in need of being recued - teachers, friends, family members. And one day, when my heart has been thoroughly ripped to shreds after all the worry and hope and pleading with God to protect my children from all that can trip them up in life, I will have to smile, step back, and let my children rescue themselves.

I was upstairs doing my thing. Chickening, as my husband calls it. A rather odd verb, but one that has become a staple in our home as it is the term Adam uses to describe my method of homemaking accomplishment. I often race around the house like a chicken with my head cut off, darting from room to room doing all those things that need to be done in the daily life of a wife and mother. I realize the chicken without a head visual is slightly disturbing, but it’s also quite accurate. My friends call me efficient . . . productive. My husband calls me a chicken.

So I was upstairs chickening that Saturday morning, working away to the loud laughter coming from the basement where Adam was playing with our children. I’m sure you think my husband had the better end of the deal, but I was perfectly content to be dusting furniture and mopping floors. Cleaning makes me happy, and getting the house clean in the morning so I can enjoy it all day . . . well, that’s pure joy for those with a touch of OCD, like myself. There was a huge smile on my face that day as I rushed around heavily armed with cleaning products and washcloths.

Then I heard the scream, and all motion ceased.

I knew that kind of scream. It wasn’t a simple bump or bruise kind of scream. It was a something really bad kind of scream. A something is broken or bloody kind of scream. A something requiring more than a quick hug and a “you’ll be okay” kind of scream.

God really does have impeccable timing.

Just a few days earlier, Charlie had offered a rare piece of information from the school day during dinner.

“Addie* is on a diet.”

My stomach took a dive and I froze; my mouth opening in repute yet falling mute as the words stuck in my throat. My son had uttered such a simple sentence, yet it conjured decades of understanding and an immediate desire to stop the madness.

Only a parent can understand the amount of love behind the lecture that followed my son’s innocent remark. The love so full, so sure, so complete it overlooks any and all conditions. And it was a solid lecture, my friends. After my initial moments of shock induced silence, I rallied in a big way; offering up all those key phrases any other mother would use to convey the basic lessons of inner beauty.

Everyone is unique.
It’s what on the inside that counts.
It’s important to be healthy and active, not thin, and you should fuel your body with good food and plenty of exercise.
You are wonderfully and fearfully made by a God who loves you no matter what.
We love you no matter what.
AND SHE’S ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE SO WHY IN THE WORLD IS SHE ON A DIET???!!!That last piece of insight came out a bit louder than the rest, I’m afraid.

You see, one of my biggest goals as a parent is to avoid exposing my children to the insanity of the world when it comes to appearance and, especially, weight. I have never used the word “diet” in front of my children. Instead, I have tried to model positive behaviors, to set a good example. I eat healthy foods and exercise six days a week, often in front of my children. I rarely offer anything except water to drink. I make sure my kids have plenty of fruit and force them to eat vegetables. I frequently tell them which foods contain specific vitamins and minerals, and why such vitamins and minerals are important. I explain the necessity of fiber and protein. My children can name the superfoods.

I don’t own a scale. I turn off the Christian radio station when the commercials come on because half of them are about weight loss and laser hair removal. I frequently leave the house without makeup. My hair doesn’t spend much time with a dryer or straight iron – it hangs out with rubberbands instead. I don’t own designer clothes, I can’t recall ever spending more than a hundred bucks on a pair of shoes, and my shampoo and conditioner costs less than three dollars each.

Yes, I use anti-wrinkle cream every single night. Yes, I pay for my hair to look like I just spent a week at the beach. Yes, I require my son to wear khaki pants and collared shirts to a church where many people don’t and my daughter likely believes chocolate is a daily necessity, but in general, I think I’m doing what I can to make sure my children aren’t aware of the billion-dollar business often referred to as the beauty industry.

Despite my best efforts, however, it’s obvious the ignorance I crave for my children concerning beauty and weight doesn’t exist. They are aware. I can remind my kids every day that the perfect Creator made them just how they’re supposed to be, but at the ages of eight and six, Charlie and Libby have discovered that in our society, there is an importance placed on beauty that has absolutely nothing to do with God. And when my husband came upstairs holding a towel underneath our daughter’s nose after “the scream,” my own awareness of the importance of beauty took over and all my good intentions as a mother flew right out the window. Me, with a size nearly A bra that is still a tad too big despite having a husband willing to pay top dollar to change that fact became a walking billboard for plastic surgery the moment said husband pulled the towel away from our daughter’s face and I saw her precious little nose pushed slightly to one side.

I called the pediatrician first, but only to mask the vanity consuming me. I knew she would tell me to head to the emergency room and that’s where I wanted to go. I didn’t want to waste even a moment of time if there was a possibility it could affect the outcome of my daughter’s facial structure. I mean really, who cares if she is an honest, giving, responsible, caring, thoughtful human being? I just need her nose to be straight.

Turns out the doctors in emergency rooms don’t handle broken noses the way movies portray doctors handling broken noses. There is no quick jerk of the physician’s hand to set the nose back into proper position. The doctor touches the nose, looks up the nose, asks questions about the nose. Then he tells you to wait a week or so until the swelling goes down and see an ear, nose, and throat guy if your daughter is snoring like an eighty year old man or her nose still appears to be slightly off-center.

Libby’s nose wasn’t broken. It just swelled more on one side after her head-to-head collision with Charlie while they were both trying to dive for the same football. Hey, you gotta love a girl who is willing to bleed for a great catch. I doubt my daughter will be wearing a helmet the next time she plays football in the basement, although the doctor in the ER did suggest it, so I’m not sure what the lesson in the whole experience was for her. I do know, however, what the lesson was for me.

I learned that for all my efforts, I will never be able to convince my children, or myself for that matter, that the way they look doesn’t matter. Of course, I wouldn’t love my daughter less if her nose was crooked for the rest of her life. But the truth is, my nose is crooked and it does make me love myself a little less.

Every day, when I look in the mirror, I see things I would like to change about my appearance. Not one thing. Things . . . plural.

I don’t want my kids to do that. I don’t want Libby to wish for wavier hair, longer eyelashes, smoother skin. But she will. And maybe that’s how God teaches her humility. I don’t want Charlie to wish his peers would stop making fun of his buck teeth. But he will. And maybe that’s how God teaches him empathy.

I want my children to believe God created them perfectly because He makes no mistakes. I want them to understand that desiring to look different is just a way of saying God doesn’t provide. I want them to realize their worth comes from who they are, which comes from who He is, which will always be more than enough. And as much as I want those things for my children, I want them for myself. Because as of today, when I look in the mirror, I still see all the things I'd like to change about my appearance. I still see a crooked nose.

The world of youth sports provides an interesting glimpse into American mentality. If there was ever a place to witness the egomania that has become such a widely recognized characteristic of our nation, it is in the stands of a little league baseball game. I know. I've spent countless hours there.

My husband and I signed our son up for his first season of baseball when he was five years old. We thought it would be a great learning experience for him. We hoped he would begin to gain some fundamental sports skills, of course, but mostly we just wanted him to be part of a team and have some fun. Baseball is a game, after all. Turns out we were late in introducing team sports to our first born. At age five, he was already behind. I guess it's more acceptable for kids to begin team sports at age three in suburban Atlanta. You know, while they still trip over their own feet walking on flat, unobstructed surfaces and have attention spans lasting approximately two and a half minutes.

Admittedly, it's adorable to watch three-year-olds on a soccer field. Their shin guards are big enough to protect their thighs and they run in circles chasing one another while the ball rolls in the opposite direction. They're just as cute playing baseball. They dig in the dirt while playing center field and sit down on the bases to rest in the middle of an inning. Let's face it, toddlers doing anything in uniforms are cause for extreme amounts of sideline photography - I get the excitement in that.

I don't think we're doing our children a desservice by encouraging them to play sports at young ages. It's good for kids to try new things, work on their gross motor skills, improve their hand-eye coordination. Sports were a huge part of my life as I grew up and I believe they instilled in me all kinds of important values including confidence, patience, determination, and a positive attitude, just to name a few. I do, however, find it disturbing to see that youth sports no longer seem to be viewed as activities designed to promote physical activity and build values. Youth sports in America today are serious business.

Today, children in elementary school take costly private lessons in the sport of their choice. Today, it's not sufficient for a child to play in a youth league at their local park. Instead, they try out for travel teams and their parents drive them all over town to play in games that prove they are better than the kids playing at their local parks. Today, parents pull their kids out of school and travel across the country for higher levels of competition. Today, men coaching eight year olds get into yelling matches over a score. Today, it seems many parents aren't interested in encouraging their children to gain beneficial values through youth sports. They are more concerned with encouraging their children's success.

I like to tell people that our son Charlie is "dabbling" when they ask me what sport he likes best. He's taken tennis lessons. He hits golf balls on the range with his daddy. He went to soccer camp one summer, lacrosse and flag football camp the next. He plays baseball in the spring and basketball in the winter.

Sadly, it seems our "dabbling" approach is unacceptable to many parents. Some believe my child should already have picked his specific sport - you know, the one he's going to do for the rest of his life and turn into a highly lucrative career that will allow my husband and me to retire early to an oasis on the beach somewhere.

Charlie started to do some pitching last fall. It was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of his life. No . . . not for him. For his parents. While our son was on the mound enjoying the opportunity to be involved in every play of an inning, Adam and I were on the bleachers pulling our hair out with anxiety.

Obviously, we wanted our son to be successful. We wanted him to perform well and contribute to his team. We were also slightly fearful. What if someone hits a line drive right back to Charlie's face? I witnessed that during a softball game in my own days of youth sports and I assure you it wasn't pretty. Yet, as my husband and I watched our child pitch, our overwhelming emotion wasn't fear or a desire for Charlie to pitch so well his team emerged victorious. Our concern centered on our child's overall well-being. The outcome of the game didn't matter. It never will. It's a game. The future didn't matter either. We have no aspirations for Charlie's future in sports. At eight years of age, our son is barely four feet tall and weighs only fifty pounds. We understand how difficult it is to become a world class athlete, especially with stats like those. Still, I will never forget the magnitude of emotions that shook my soul the first time I sat in the stands and watched my son go to work on a little league pitcher's mound. My need for him to do his best, not THE best but HIS best, was a desperate one. I longed for him to feel good about his effort and ability in a way I find difficult to explain.

Charlie was a fine little pitcher during the fall baseball season. He was even better in the spring. In fact, he was so much better that he was asked to try out for a summer all-star team. I was against it on account of the daily practices, the faraway tournaments, and the Atlanta humidity. My husband felt we had to give Charlie the choice. I relented, Charlie tried out, made the team, and our foray into the seriousness of youth sports in America officially began.

I could tell you about the undeniable increase in intensity I felt around me during my son's all-star games. I could tell you about the parents who cheered blatantly against opposing teams instead of simply cheering for their own teams. I could even tell you about the fist fight between fathers that likely would have occured had not a large umpire stepped in to stop it. I think the most important thing I can tell you, however, is that after a month of all-star baseball, I saw a shift in Charlie's mindset. When the spring season ended, our son had only positive feelings about baseball. He loved the game and believed he was good at it. After his all-star team lost EVERY game they played, Charlie no longer had such confidence in his baseball abilities. That's a true shame.

People offered all kinds of reasons for the winless record of Charlie's all-star team - reasons that involved parents lying about birth dates and ignoring rules about practice limits. Some of the kids on the other teams were twice the size of Charlie and one looked like he might have driven himself to the game, so hey, who knows . . . maybe there are parents out there who place such significance on little league baseball that they would rather win than demonstrate basic human decency. Honestly, I just think there are plenty of kids in the metro Atlanta area who have more athletic talent than my kid. And that's okay.

Charlie wanted to play baseball again this fall, so I suppose the all-star season didn't damage his attitude about youth sports in a permanent way. For me, the worst part of the experience wasn't that it opened my eyes to the importance many well-meaning parents have placed on youth sports today. The worst part was that it allowed the American mentality residing within me to rear its ugly head in recognizable fashion. It showed me that no matter how much emphasis I place on my child having fun and being a good teammate and demonstrating sportsmanship and doing his best, I can't help but want his best . . . to be good enough. How else do you explain the fact that while my child was on the pitcher's mound, I was silently praying for him to strike out the kid at the batter's box, even when, deep down, I knew the batter's mother was likely on the other side of the bleachers praying for her child to hit the ball out of the park. Clearly, the other mom must have been praying a whole lot louder.

Or maybe her son takes private hitting lessons three times a week.

She said it matter-of-factly and the words themselves held no meaning. Still, they rocked my world.

I stepped into the shower with her, as I did many nights, and positioned myself in the corner so as not to take too much of the hot water. That had been an issue during these showers. She still preferred baths, where she could have all the hot water to herself.  But we had eaten dinner out, and on the way home, I informed my daughter it would be a shower night, for the sake of time. I moved my head under the stream of water as quickly as possible, then back out again, and reached for the shampoo on the shelf.

"Mom, I've already washed my hair and my body so I just need to use some conditioner and I'll be good to go."

The words had no significance. They weren't important words. They weren't even interesting words. If I'd heard the sentence come out of someone else's mouth, it would have had no impact. The words meant nothing other than the fact that my daughter was informing me she had removed the grime of the day. Yet, they made my head spin. They made my stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. You see, it wasn't the words she said.

It was the echo of myself I heard so distinctly as she said them.

A smile crossed my face for the briefest of moments as I realized my daughter had said something I would say in exactly the way I would say it. It was like listening to a self-recording. The voice, the intonation, the phrase; all so familiar. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and then . . . what? I couldn't put my finger on it, but my heart clenched inside my chest. My eyes filled and I turned to face the stream of water flowing from the shower head, letting it wash away the tears.

I wanted a daughter. The first go-round I wanted a son and God blessed me with Charlie. He was beautiful and perfect - a dream come true in every way. When I was pregnant for the second time, I wanted a girl. I didn't tell anyone I felt that way because, really, who doesn't just want a healthy baby with ten little fingers and ten tiny toes (and preferably no colic). But in the dark silence, just before I went to sleep each night, I prayed for a girl.

Please God. Please give me a daughter.

God answered that prayer with Libby.

She has been so different from what I expected. So different from her brother, the only other baby I've ever loved with a passion so complete and magnificent it still astounds me.

My son and I are alike in many ways, and those ways seem to grow as he does. We are perfectionists, type A's. We want to do everything well, even things we've never tried before. We like routine. We need to know what's coming next. We like a challenge and take pleasure in striving to meet goals. We can have fun and be silly, but by nature, we are serious much of the time. We don't enjoy chaos and we don't mind sitting in silence.

I'm pleased Charlie inherited much of my personality. It suits him. It works. He's just who he is supposed to be. I believe that to my core. Sometimes he makes choices I would like to change, but rarely because they are bad choices. They are simply safe choices. The choices I would have made at his age.

My daughter isn't like me. She can have the lead in a school play. She can study abroad during college. She can hike through Europe and go on a mission trip to Africa and accept an internship in Manhattan.

My daughter isn't like me. She doesn't judge others. She doesn't envy others. She doesn't plan obsessively, clean incessantly, worry constantly.

My daughter isn't like me. She's more confident than I am. She's more outgoing. She's more spirited, more daring, more thoughtful, more loving, more helpful, more hopeful, more affectionate, more beautiful, more . . .

She's just more.

I don't want Libby to be like me. She's not supposed to be like me. She's supposed to be different. She's supposed to be better.

I guess most mothers project expectations on our children. That's part of our job, after all. We expect our kids to do the things we know they're capable of doing. We expect them to learn to use the bathroom on their own and chew with their mouths closed and ride a two-wheeled bicycle. Before we know it, we expect them to complete homework on time and study for science tests and take the trash out on Friday mornings. Mothers work every day to make sure we're doing our part to help our children meet our expectations and reach their potential because we believe those are our roles as parents. Yet, I can't help but wonder . . . are we really trying to help our children become the best they can be, or are we trying to turn them into everything we wish we were?

I don't want Libby to be like me. Yet, she is. I see myself in her face, her body, her actions, her voice. Genes are strong, my friends. I know this because when I look at a picture of me at the age of five, it looks exactly like a picture of my son at the age of five. I know this because I have the same need for botox in the same spot on my forehead my father needs it. I know this because I made the mistake of wearing shorts while doing yoga not long ago, and when I was in the downward dog position, I saw my mother's knees.

Beyond the genetics, there's the influence factor. I'm blessed to be a stay-at-home mom and I will be forever grateful for that fact. My daughter has spent a large portion of nearly every day of her life in my presence. My influence simply cannot be denied. Of course Libby walks like me and talks like me and, sometimes, acts like me. God made her mine. He chose me to be her mother.

Libby has met every expectation my husband and I have had for her. She rolled over on time and sat up on schedule. She crawled at six months, walked at nine, and started telling us all her opinions not long after her first birthday. She sleeps in a big girl bed, holds a pencil correctly, and reads like the wind.

Still, I suppose my job has always involved more than encouraging my children to meet expectations. I have to lead by example. I have to demonstrate and model and instruct and lecture and demand and train until my children have become the best they can be. And while I do all of that, I have to remember who is ultimately in control. God created my children and He is the one who will shape their lives and direct their paths. No matter what those paths may be, I have to love my children unconditionally while reminding them that my love for them is nothing compared to God's love for them. Then, after all the training and relinquishing control and unconditional loving, I have to pray. And I have to trust. And I have to believe that my children's best will, most likely, be completely different that I ever could have expected. They will go farther, reach higher, dream bigger. They will do everything I couldn't. In the end, Charlie and Libby might turn out to be a lot like me. But I know they will also be smarter, stronger, better. I know they will be . . . more.

She’s really cute. She has these big brown eyes that look up at you with that “I’m adorable and you should love me a lot” look. She’s small and round and energetic and thrilled to see you every time you go anywhere near her. She sleeps the majority of the time. She even sleeps through the night in a little metal crate I can’t believe she finds comfortable. She’s only gone to the bathroom in the house a handful of times, most of which were probably my fault because I was too busy doing what I wanted to do instead of grabbing the leash and running for the backyard. She’s soft and fluffy and she learned to fetch in about two minutes. She rolls over so you can rub her belly after a nap. She doesn’t know her tail is attached to her body, which makes for quite a funny game of chase. Her fur is a beautiful caramel color and she has these silly white paws. She’s hypoallergenic and non-shedding. She likes peanut butter . . . a lot. She likes to chew . . . everything. Her name is Macie and she’s really cute.





She’s also driving me absolutely crazy.



My friends offered all kinds of positive encouragement when I told them my husband and I planned to surprise our kids with a puppy for Christmas. I know most of them were rather shocked that their Type A friend with a hint of obsessive-compulsive disorder running through her veins was going to allow an animal to inhabit her home, but they didn’t do anything to squelch the idea. They told me I could definitely do it. They told me I would love having a pet. They told me it would be loads of fun. They said it would be a great learning experience for our entire family.



What in the world were they thinking?



Macie has been with us for five weeks now and honestly, I’m thinking if I was going to put our family through this kind of insanity, I should have just had another baby. Seriously friends, it’s one thing to become a slave to a miracle created out of love between you and your husband after drinking too much red wine. It’s an entirely different beast to become a slave to a ridiculously expensive ball of fur that will never learn to talk, use a toilet, or wipe her feet before coming through the front door. If you think I’m being dramatic, I have three words for you . . . get a puppy. A puppy is easily as much work as a newborn, and remember, puppies don’t wear diapers. So not only do you have to clean up poop, you have to clean it off the brand new linen tree skirt your mother made you for your anniversary.



If I’d had a baby, I would be able to stay inside when it’s forty degrees, windy, and raining sideways. I could spend my days snuggled up on the couch with a ten-pound gift from God attached to my chest making adorable little sucking noises and reminding me to treasure every precious minute of life. Instead, I’m spending all my time freezing in the woods behind my house waiting for a ten-pound canine walking in circles trying to decide exactly which patch of the earth is the best spot for her to leave her mark.



If I’d gone ahead and had a third child, I would be receiving lovely gifts in the mail every other day – smocked outfits and tiny onesies and beautiful picture frames. With a new puppy, all I’m receiving are outrageous bills from the vet, who’s had more one-on-one time with me in the last month than my husband.



A newborn would have given me a reprieve from the busyness of life, the power to say “no,” if you will. People stop expecting you to fill your plate with social events and activities and duties when you’ve just had a new baby. You can turn down the many requests for help and volunteering and baked goods for a few relaxing months after you’ve given birth. But a puppy? Please, pile on the requests people. I don’t have anything going on. I can’t leave the house for more than two hours and when I am home, I’m interrupted every fifteen minutes to take a dog outside to sniff every blade of grass in the backyard, but no worries. I have plenty of free time on my hands. What can I do for you?



Babies smell wonderful. Puppies smell like . . . small dogs.



Babies don’t have teeth. Puppies have lots of teeth . . . sharp ones. And they like to use them.



When you put a baby down, she stays in one spot. When you put a puppy down, she runs right to your favorite rug and begins chewing it to bits.



After you give a baby a bath, you get to wrap him up in a warm towel and bury your head in the silky folds of his neck. After you give a puppy a bath, you need a raincoat.



Oh, and did I mention not a single person has offered to bring me dinner.



Okay, you’re right. I am being a tad dramatic. I’m not experiencing sleep deprivation, my nipples aren’t sore, and I don’t have an ice pack in my underwear. But after a month with Macie, I do believe there is something called post-puppy depression. And folks, I’ve got it.



I should probably make a confession here. The truth is . . . I wanted a puppy. Or at least, I wanted my children to have a puppy. I’ve never had a dog. I’m not a dog person - I believe we established that in a previous post. Still, I wanted my children to experience life with a pet. I don’t want them to grow up to be like me – I want them to smile when they see a dog on the street, not turn around and walk the other way. I felt a puppy would serve to bring even more love into our home. I thought she would be another special family member to cherish. I hoped she would make our daughter stop asking me when I’m going to have another baby. I even had the notion that a puppy might be a good form of daily “let it go” therapy for my OCD issues. Hey, statistics show pet owners lead happier, healthier, longer lives – I’m all for happiness, health, and longevity. And of course, like all naïve mothers out there, I also believed a pet would help teach my children to be more responsible.



“It will be good for Charlie and Libby to see what it’s like to care for another living creature.”



Yes, I actually said that. Out loud.



What in the world was I thinking?



I’m fairly certain I don’t need medication for my post-puppy depression. I did see a sign last week in front of a strip mall that said “Puppy adoptions today!” and immediately wondered if anyone would notice if I slipped Macie in one of the cages with the other poor, sad, homeless, orphan dogs. I think someone would adopt her right away. Remember, she’s really cute. Unfortunately, we paid to have that microchip thing inserted underneath our puppy’s skin so we would never lose her. Not so sure that was our best move.



I’ve had numerous inquiries into our puppy adventure over the past few weeks. Everyone is eager to know how things are going with our new addition. My response is the same almost every time.



“It’s a big adjustment, but I know it will be fine.”



Despite many moments of buyer’s remorse, I do believe it’s going to be fine. I feel confident that pet ownership will get easier and our family will begin to find the blessings in it. Macie won’t always be a puppy. One day, she will be an adult dog who doesn’t need four bathroom breaks every hour. One day, she will be able to roam the house with our complete trust in her ability not to damage anything. One day, she will lie at our feet without trying to eat our toes. One day, she will not think of the leash as her worst enemy. And one day, my kitchen will return to its usual state of order and cleanliness and lose the chew toys and baby gates causing my recent heart palpitations.





For now, however, we have a puppy. She’s challenging. She’s exasperating. She’s prompted several “WHO DO WE KNOW WHO WANTS THIS DOG BECAUSE I CAN’T DO THIS FOR ONE MORE SECOND!” phone calls to my husband. She’s even been the cause of one near nervous breakdown when said husband informed me that Cavachons typically live fifteen to eighteen years. Eighteen years. Eighteen years? Are you telling me I’ll be taking this dog out in the rain and the cold and the Atlanta humidity in late August for the next two decades of my life?





Oh. My. Word.





But . . . it will be fine. I know it will be fine. We will adjust and one day soon, we will all be fine. Until then, we will remain optimistic, continue praying for patience, and stay focused on Macie’s positives, or at least the one positive I can find . . . the fact that despite her willingness to look me in the face and squat on my kitchen floor less than thirty seconds after I took her outside, she really is cute.

I hate New Year’s resolutions.

Okay, okay.

I guess hate is a bit intense right after the holidays.

The truth is . . . I don’t hate the actual resolutions people often make at the beginning of a new year. It’s wonderfully exciting to look back and think ahead. To consider where you’ve been, what you’ve done, who you were. To plan adjustments that might make yourself and your life a better version of what it once was. I’m all for a little constructive reevaluation from time to time. I believe there can be a great deal of value in purposefully taking stock and deciding if the people and activities that have commanded our focus over a twelve month period have been worth our time and effort.

I make resolutions at the end of December like everyone else. In fact, I have a list that would make Atlas Shrugged seem short. (Just Google "longest novels ever written” if you don’t know what I’m talking about.) I want to improve. I want to be different in a myriad of ways. I want to eat less sugar and more spinach. I want to talk less and listen more. I want to buy less and save more. I want to complain less and celebrate more. I want to judge less and love more. I want to be a more enthusiastic parent, a more attentive wife, a more loving daughter, a more thoughtful friend. I want to be less impatient, less worried, less demanding, less of a perfectionist. I want to make changes in my life. I need to make changes in my life. So, like I said, I make New Year’s resolutions right along with the rest of you. I don’t hate the resolutions. I simply hate my inability to keep them.

I wonder . . . what if all this appraising of life we do at the end of each calendar year is completely futile because of its very nature, because it involves the act of contemplating the past and anticipating the future, because it causes us to immerse ourselves in what has already been and design what is yet to be –the two things we have absolutely no control over.

I wonder . . . what if we didn’t look back. What if we didn’t look ahead. What if we concentrated only on the present. Right now. This moment.

I guess some of those resolutions on our lists wouldn’t make much sense if we realized today could be our last. I mean really, if I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow morning I certainly wouldn’t spend forty-five minutes of today in a pouring sweat in my workout room and I would definitely be eating brownies for breakfast, cookies for lunch, and cake for dinner. Today’s line-up of snacks would involve French fries, chips and salsa, and several slices of pizza . . . IF I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow.

But, are those the kinds of resolutions we need to keep? Sure, it’s important to exercise and eat right, but aren’t those resolutions pretty low on the list of what really matters in our lives. It’s the big resolutions I’m thinking about here. The ones that have to do with how we spend the seconds of each day and how we treat the people we love.

If we viewed this day as our last, we would keep every truly important resolution we’ve ever made. If we could put all our energies into this day, think how we’d be able to transform our thoughts, words, and actions. I could be exactly who I want to be if I didn’t allow what has happened in the past or what might happen in the future to consume a single one of my thoughts. I would be so full of love and celebration and gratitude and joy if I could just consider this day to be the precious gift that it is.

I’ve crumpled up my list of New Year’s resolutions and thrown it in the trash. I don’t need a list to remind me what I want to do and who I want to be in 2012. I just need to remember one short sentence, seventeen simple words.

Psalm 118:24 This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Forget the past.

Ignore the future.

Focus on the present. The gift of today.

That’s all I have to do. It’s my one and only New Year’s resolution. I will probably fail at least three-hundred and sixty-five times, but this year, I will try to remember that each day could be my last. And I will live . . . and love . . . accordingly.

Now, pass me another brownie.:)

Christmas lists can be rather telling, don’t ya think?

Confession: Last December, I had to seek counseling over my son’s Christmas list. Yes, my friends, a letter written by a seven year old beginning with the words “Dear Santa” sent me to therapy.

Let me explain.

I am a bubble mom. Hey, I’m a control freak and control freaks like to keep their kids in
bubbles . . . teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy, small ones. I discovered not long after becoming a mother that I had very clear visions regarding what I did and did not want to expose my children to, and there were a LOT of things on the “no” list.

To give you an example of how hard-core my list was, I will admit to nursing Charlie while watching HGTV on mute. Why was the TV on mute, you ask?  Because I couldn’t stand the thought of exposing my newborn baby to anything that might be even the slightest bit negative, and they might use such appalling words as “hate” or “sexy” on HGTV.  (They do, you know, which is why I still don’t allow my kids to watch Divine Design, even though I think Candice Olsen hung the moon, and when I win the lottery and feed as many starving kids as possible, I will then hire her to redecorate my entire life.)

I’m still terrified of the television when it comes to my children. Now that Charlie is older, he wants to watch sporting events with his daddy. Sure, golf is fairly clean, but I have to make sure Adam is armed with the remote control ready to change the channel as soon as any commercials come on. I simply don’t have the inclination to explain why half-naked women show up on all beer commercials and I definitely don’t want to explain what Viagra is all about.

Movies make me nervous too. Although there are guidelines for determining the rating of movies, I’m not so sure they make sense. We even stayed away from the G rated Disney movies until last January, when it snowed so much the kids were out of school for a week and we finally tired of sledding down our driveway. I know they’re classics, but again, the language isn’t always appropriate and the themes irritate me. I mean seriously, what did Walt Disney have against mothers anyway?

Music is yet another issue for bubble moms like myself. There is nothing great out there for school age children. My kids loved Bible songs and the baby and toddler CD’s when they were young, but once they started school, they outgrew “The Wheels on the Bus,” and there just isn’t a next step. I love music with a great beat as much as the next girl, but I don’t need The Black-Eyed Peas on my five-year-old's play list.

My extreme sheltering extends beyond television, movies, and music. Until last Christmas, we didn’t have any toys with weapons in our house. In fact, I never used the word ‘gun’ in front of my children, along with many other words like ‘kill’, ‘die’, or ‘dead.’ I realize my kids will one day learn our world has the potential to be a violent place, but I wanted to put that day off for as long as possible. So, for years, when my daughter saw a beetle on the ground that wasn’t moving, I told her it was simply taking a little snooze on the sidewalk. And when well-meaning family members bought Star Wars Lego sets for my son because they thought I was going overboard with my desire to protect my children’s innocence, I confiscated the weapons in the blink of an eye and threw them immediately into the trash.

Like I said . . . hard-core. I formed a bubble around my children and tired to keep it intact for many years. Of course, every bubble pops eventually, and the one I created around Charlie and Libby finally did. In fact, it probably popped years earlier, but I was too busy making sure my kids still thought the ‘F’ word had to do with releasing bodily gas to realize it. When I saw Charlie’s Christmas list last December, however, I knew my bubble had burst.

My seven-year-old son asked Santa Claus to bring him a Nerf gun, a bow and arrow, and a pocketknife for Christmas.

Every single item on his list was a weapon.
Well, this bubble mom panicked. I called the counselor at Charlie's school and requested an emergency meeting while visions of sociopaths danced in my head.

The amazing school counselor reassured me that my son was not on his way to becoming a dangerous criminal. He was just a little boy who wanted to play like a little boy with toys made specifically for, yep, you got it . . . little boys. It made sense when a trained professional explained it that way, so I went with it, and after my counseling session, Santa delivered in a BIG way. He brought Charlie a nerf gun and a bow and arrow for Christmas. TWO weapons. Of course, in typical fashion, Charlie rarely plays with either of them, but they sit in his closet, reminding me that there is no way I will always be able to protect my children. They will hear things I don’t want them to hear. They will see things I don’t want them to see. They will learn things I don’t want them to learn. All I can do is try to keep the lines of communication open and pray for God’s protection over my children. And I have to trust that the bubble I had around Charlie and Libby for so many years gave them just enough sheltering to allow them to go out into the world and find the good in it.

This year, Charlie’s Christmas list looks like this:
1. Play Station
2. Backpack (it doesn’t matter which color)
3. Another Nerf Gun
4. Surprises!!!

Number two is my favorite. Only a male could be that agreeable. Man, I love that kid. And I'm so glad I won't need any therapy this year.

Merry Christmas my friends! May God richly bless you this holiday weekend and always!

I’ve lied to my children. I would love to meet a mother who hasn’t, but still, it’s tough to teach the value of honesty when you’ve looked your kid in the eyes and told him that, yes indeed, a pacifier fairy really did fly through his window in the middle of the night because she knew he was ready to go to sleep without his favorite security item. Lying to my child in order to force him to take a developmental leap I deemed necessary probably isn't quality parenting.

There have been plenty of little lies throughout the years as well.

“No, honey, we can’t go to the ice skating rink because, ummmm, it’s closed today.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, we can’t buy that new toy because I only brought enough money to the store to buy the other thirty things in our shopping cart."

"Why yes, love, I do think you look beautiful with six bows in your hair and pink lipstick smeared all over your face.”

I justify the inaccurate statements I make to my children in the hopes of building their self-confidence, or protecting them, or letting them down easily, or getting out of a public place without causing an embarrassing meltdown, or . . . or maybe just because I’m too chicken to deal with the ramifications my honesty might bring. I want my children to understand what it means to have restraint, but I don’t always know how to handle their reaction when I deny the instant gratification they crave. I want them to know they don’t have to go somewhere special to have a great time, but I struggle to find pleasure in the ordinary myself some days. I want my kids to be able to find the magic of life, but I’m not sure how much of it I should create for them and when to let reality settle in.

There have been bigger deceptions in my almost nine year stint as a mother as well. Like most American children, I loved the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus when I was a child, and I’ve enjoyed passing down their unique traditions to my own son and daughter. But as Christmas approaches this year and my children are now eight and six, I'm beginning to wonder, at what point do I put a stop to the sham? I received gifts from “Santa” on Christmas morning when I was a college student and thought it was great fun. Still, do I want to continue in this manner with my own kids?

I’ve received all kinds of advice on how to handle the beginning of the end; the moment when your child begins to realize you have tricked him into playing along with a con involving a large bearded man sliding down a chimney while his eight flying reindeer wait on the roof. ?????

Some suggest it’s best to use the old ‘you gotta believe to receive’ adage. I like that one. It doesn’t spill the beans, but it doesn’t come right out and deliver a blatant lie either.

Some people turn the question around when they begin to notice a child having the doubts of a non-believer. “Well honey, who do you think puts the presents under the tree on Christmas Eve?” I like that one too. It encourages critical thinking without incorporating any admission of dishonesty on the part of the parent.

Many people can tell you about the exact moment they learned Santa Claus wasn't real, and some claim is was a devastating event in their lives. I think I suspected long before I truly knew, but either way, I don't remember being significantly upset when I became certain my parents were the ones delivering gifts on Christmas Eve. I think it didn't matter because, regardless of who was doing the actual delivering, I was thrilled to wake up on Christmas day and find packages under the tree with my name on them. Santa or no Santa, I bubbled over with excitement every Christmas Eve, rushing downstairs before the sun came up each Christmas morning. It was ALWAYS my favorite day of the year.

My son is very logical. I could see his wheels turning even before he started kindergarten when his dad and I would tell him about Santa and sleighs and chimneys. He just wasn't buying it. He had lots of questions. Good ones. And I found it tough to come up with explanations that satisfied his skepticism.

After a couple years, Charlie's questions about Santa Claus stopped. Some of my friends think my son decided to believe in Santa despite his doubts. Honestly, I think he just decided to go along with the idea of Santa because his parents weren't leaving him any other choice. I think Charlie knows his dad and I are the ones leaving presents for him and his sister on Christmas Day, and frankly, I'm okay with that. In fact, part of me wants to come right out and confirm his suspicions. Then we can let him get in on the fun of being on the other side of the charade.

I think the reason I'm not distressed about my son's status as a Santa believer has to do with the fact that I have some real concerns about the deceptions we feed our children in the name of good holiday fun. I have concerns that there is real potential for the magical characters of childhood to weaken the case of God.

Whoa. Now that’s serious. You didn't think I was going that deep, did you? Neither did I, but hey, it's good to get out of the shallow end every once in a while, don't you think?

I know it sounds a little nuts, but stick with me for a minute.

Is it possible we're setting our kids up to question the existence of God by putting money under their pillows every time they lose a tooth?

If you think about it, children are likely to put God in the same realm as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. In fact, they might even place God somewhere below such fictional characters, because they can actually sit on Santa’s lap every year. They can talk to him at the mall and receive letters from him in the mail and see the evidence of his existence when they open their eyes to a room full of new goodies every Christmas morning.

What about God? He's not hanging around handing out candy canes in parking lots every December.

We try to explain God's important characteristics to our children with examples, both verbal and physical. We read books about God, tell Bible stories about Him, listen to songs about Him, and pray to Him. Yet, in many homes, God is just a person kids know about because they hear His name mentioned now and again when somebody sneezes.

When I visualize heaven, I think of streets paved in shimmering gold. I picture every flower, tree, and bush of spring blooming at the exact same time. I see layers upon layers of open petals; the bright yellow forsythia has a towering backdrop of pale pink cherry trees, bright pink red buds, and white Dogwoods, while tulips, daffodils, pansies, and violas burst forth in flaming pastels from all directions. I imagine a luminous light reflecting every color in the spectrum so everything around me is exquisitely warm and cheery. I hear angels making the most beautiful music I’ve ever known, music from every instrument harmonizing together to create a constant, fluid melody that rings in my ears and echoes in my soul.

When my kids think about heaven, do they imagine the same glorious splendor of sights and sounds and emotions that I do . . . or are they picturing a workshop filled with toys at the top of the North Pole?

My son hasn't come right out and asked me if Santa Claus is real. I'm not sure he ever will. If he does, I'm sure I'll dodge the question with something about Santa being the symbol of the Christmas spirit, which is most definitely real in those who choose to make it a part of their lives during the holiday season, and hopefully, every day of the year. Or maybe I'll tell him the story of Nicholas, who was born during the third century and raised to care for and help others, especially children. Back then, and still in many places today, he became known as Saint Nicholas - you see where this leads, right?

As long as my son isn't asking me any direct questions about Santa, however, I'm going to keep my mouth shut. I'm going to wrap all his gifts in paper he's never seen. I'm going to make sure he leaves cookies and milk by the fireplace on Christmas Eve. I'm going to be amazed at the treasures in his stocking on Christmas morning. And when the holidays are over and the jolly man has resumed his post on top of the world, I'll stop talking about Santa Claus and how wonderful he is at Christmas time, and instead, I'll tell my son about God, and how wonderful He is ALL THE TIME.

I won’t forget the crisp sound of the slap as their hands met in the air. It was the sound of understanding. A surprising moment of connection, not just of flesh but of hearts; an unspoken agreement between two strangers who, for a moment at least, identified completely with one another.



They could have been a lot alike. In some ways, I guess they were. They were both boys, born and living in Atlanta. They were about the same age and smaller than they’d like to be. They had little sisters, loved hot dogs, and played basketball. And for this one afternoon, they sat side-by-side at a table while people in Santa hats mingled around them, sharing hugs and good cheer for the holiday fast approaching. They could have been a lot alike . . . but they weren’t.



One hand much lighter. Our son. Born into all the good fortune a life can hold. Two parents living together, both educated, one a provider of income and insurance. Two sets of healthy grandparents. A warm and safe home. Plenty of love. Plenty to eat. Plenty to wear. Plenty to play with. Plenty of everything. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



One hand shades darker. Her son. Born into another set of circumstances. A single mother, uneducated, working nights to support her three children. A grandmother addicted to drugs. Ten aunts and uncles; some placed out of reach in undisclosed foster homes. Plenty of love, but not enough of the other things, the things we had brought to give, the things we think of as basic necessities – food, clothes, blankets, toys. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



Funny how easily kids can get along despite their differences. They talked about sports and skateboards. They laughed about sitting on Santa’s lap. They smiled at each other when their mothers told them they could eat their dessert. They both knew why we were there. They might have known they wouldn’t have met otherwise. It didn’t matter. Because for the two hours they were together, they searched for the things they had in common, and when they found something, their hands reached up high, coming together in a celebratory slap of mutual appreciation.



I won’t forget the sound of that slap because I easily could have missed it. You see, when a friend asked if our family would like to participate in an adopt-a-family for Christmas program, I hesitated. I thought about the idea and I actually considered turning it down. With a husband working in commercial real estate, this is the first Christmas in several years that hasn’t caused a significant amount of financial strain, and I wanted to relish in our abundance. I wanted to buy bigger, better gifts for everyone on my list. I wanted to say yes to all the ornament exchanges and spoil family members I never get to spoil and have two Christmas trees instead of one. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’re having our basement renovated. As I write this, there are all kinds of crazy noises coming from below and I can see dust floating in from under the basement door and settling on my kitchen floor. I wanted hardwood floors in the basement. I wanted marble countertops and a glass tile backsplash and travertine floors. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’ve never adopted a family before. My parents used to participate in a similar program when I was a kid, but I wasn’t really involved. My mom and dad would leave my brother and me with a babysitter and deliver “Christmas” to the family they had been matched with in downtown Atlanta. The program my friend invited us to join this year wasn’t a drop-off kind of program. It was a deliver “Christmas” in person kind of program. It was a sit down for lunch in a church fellowship hall with the family you adopted kind of program. That scared me. I was concerned about my own comfort. And so . . . I hesitated.



I don’t know what made me finally agree to participate in the program my friend invited us to be a part of, but we ended up in that church fellowship hall having lunch with our adopted family this past weekend. I left with questions. Why are there such differences between my son and hers?Why is my son so lucky? Why does he get it easy, with an abundance of opportunities surrounding him from every side? Why should someone else’s son have fewer chances? Why should someone else’s son have to fight so hard? Yet, despite my questions, the lasting impression of the day had nothing to do with the inequalities of life I often forget about because they so rarely impact me in a negative way. The image that will remain with me is the picture of my son and hers, their hands clasped together.



I don’t have the answers to my questions, and I never will, but I know God does. I think he was looking down on us in that church fellowship hall, rejoicing in the glorious sound as two of his children, so different and yet so much the same, found a reason to share, smile, and give one another a high five.

And next year . . . I won’t hesitate.

I have CDO. It’s like OCD, but the letters are in order like they should be. - From a
t-shirt in a catalog that somehow ended up in my mailbox this week. Coincidence???

I think not.

My friends, I have reached a new level of maturity. Frankly, I’m thinking my status as supermom might need reinstatement, for this week at least. I, control freak since birth and lifetime queen of wanting things done exactly like I want them done, have allowed my children to put colored lights on our Christmas tree this year.

Yep, you read it correctly.

Colored Christmas lights . . . on my tree . . . right now.

There are blue ones. There are yellow ones. There are red and green ones. There are even, heaven help me, pink ones. Pink lights are twinkling all over my Fraser Fir at this very moment and I don’t have a single urge to rip them off and replace them with white ones. Well, I might have a teensy eensy weensy little tiny urge. But I will not act on it.

Like I said, I have reached a new pinnacle of maturity.

Christmas lights have been a long-standing issue in our home. They simply don’t bring out the best in my husband and me. Well, mainly me. While we both employ the squinty eye technique to determine precise placement, we don’t go about the placement in the same manner. I prefer to start low and stay there until all dark spaces are illuminated. Adam likes to wind up and down and around the tree in a more haphazard spreading of the bulbs. After several Christmases and countless hours attempting to undo tangled strings of lights, we worked out a solution to this particular problem. Adam puts the lights on the Christmas tree every year in whatever manner he so chooses. When it’s time for the tree to come down, he tosses it in the woods with the lights still wound a hundred times around its branches. A wise budget decision? No. Vital to our marriage? Absolutely.

Last year, a new issue popped up in regards to Christmas lights. While I was off shopping one lovely Saturday morning, Adam and Charlie hung icicle lights on our front porch. Sound lovely? Well certainly, they are lovely . . . at night. But what about the other twelve hours of each day. How are you supposed to conceal all that tacky cording and those hideously large white plugs as they hang down in front of your beautifully wreathed front door?

I apologize if I’m offending anyone. To each his own – I love that about life. And I admit, I have seen good-looking icicle lights that probably cost a lot more than the ones my well-meaning husband purchased. At my house, however, cheap icicle lights on the front porch are not on the pre-approved list of appropriate holiday decorations. The beauty they provide from dusk until my bedtime is simply not worth it to me, possibly because I go to bed at 9:30.

I held it together in front of my son when this atrocity of Christmas preparation occurred last December. I oooed and ahhhed over the lights while Charlie was standing there. I admired his handiwork and raved about his creativity. Later, however, my husband received a verbal lashing of the worst kind. It was ugly. It was mean. It was completely un-Christmaslike. The icicle lights stayed up until December 26th, but only because the mother in me actually has a soul.

My husband and I had a pre-decorating discussion the following fall, solving the problem before it presented itself for a second time. The icicle lights are once again shining brightly at our house this December, only they’re on the back deck instead of the front porch. Still not my favorite, but a reasonable compromise, don’t you think, and certainly a clear sign of my evolving maturity.

As we’ve begun preparing for Christmas 2011 in the last couple of weeks, the kids have been helping me create ornaments for an advent tree. We have a book that traces the lineage of Christ through the Old Testament and gives specific Bible stories that show what led to Jesus’ birth. We are making an ornament to go along with each story. To further display my growing maturity, I must tell you that I have readily relinquished important tasks to my children during our recent ornament making sessions; tasks that involve markers, paint, pipe cleaners, glue, feathers, cotton balls, sequins, and (pray for me on this one) glitter. Our carpet is somehow sparkling and there is a lamb on our advent tree that looks like he’s robbing a bank, but still, it’s been hands off for me.

I’m not sure what set off my fresh take on Christmas. I suppose my laidback approach might be a sign of defeat. Perhaps I’m learning to wave the white flag in this war we affectionately call parenting. And make no mistake about it, my friends – it is a war. We are at war with the world and all the wonderfully awful things in it that can keep our children from being and doing what is good and right. When my kids were young, it was easy to convince them that their desires were the same as mine. Now, they know what they want, they tell me what they want, and I have to decide if what they want lines up with what I want for them. I’m fairly certain that as my children grow, the chance that their desires and mine will line up is going to get a whole lot slimmer, and quite frankly, the color of the lights on a Christmas tree isn’t a battle I’m up for fighting.

Maybe, though . . . maybe my carefree attitude exists because I finally decided to embrace the reality of Christmas, which is that it really is all about the kids. Well, it’s REALLY all about Jesus. But after that, it’s totally about the kids. I want Christmas to be magical for my kids. The wreath on our front door doesn’t need to be fancy. It simply announces to the world that we believe in the hope and peace that Christmas has to offer. Our mantel doesn’t need to look like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. It only needs to hold the stockings with my children’s names on them. We don’t need to wrap our tree with the perfect ribbon at just the right angle. It’s beautiful because it’s full of the symbols that remind Charlie and Libby of everything that is important to our family – love and life and fun and God. The gifts don’t have to be numerous and they certainly don’t need to be expensive. They just need to show the people we care about that they are special to us.

I’m pleased with the mature Christmas I’m having in 2011. I’m proud of the way I’m letting go of perfection and trying to bask in the glory of the holiday season instead. My cards don’t have the ideal picture, my tree leans slightly to the right, and the swags of garland on my staircase are a bit uneven. But I have an adoring husband. I have friends who care about me. I have a home. I have shoes on my feet, clothes in my closet, food in my refrigerator, gifts under my tree, Jesus in my heart. And I have two healthy children, my dreams come true, who are counting down the days until December 25th with pure excitement, and who are happy because they asked if they could have colored lights on their Christmas tree, and their mama remembered what it was all about, smiled, and said . . . yes.

Heeeeeeee’s coooommmmmmiiinnngggg!!!!!!!!!

I know he’s coming because my daughter helped me heave our jack-o-lanterns into the trashcan last week, soft and moldy from a month of sitting on our front porch greeting the neighbors with spooky smiles. I know because my favorite clothing stores have replaced the neutral shades of fall with sequins on every item. I know because there are people outside in thirty-eight degree temperatures stringing flashing lights along their bushes as the rain drips down their backs.

I know he’s coming because after eleven months of strolling to the mailbox without a hint of anticipation, I now rush towards it each afternoon awaiting glimpses of friends and family I haven’t seen in a while. I also know because when I open my mailbox to retrieve the festive greetings I’m so anxiously hoping to find, catalogs from every company ever established in the proximity of the world come tumbling out, their covers displaying all the latest in ornaments, stockings, and the $600 Lego set my son has requested this year.

I know he’s coming because although I don’t drink much coffee and I certainly can’t afford an eight-dollar cup of it, I suddenly find myself longing to sip on a gingerbread latte from Starbucks. I know because when I walk the ten steps from my bedroom to the kitchen each morning, I end up with at least a dozen pine needles stuck to the bottom of my fuzzy socks. I know he’s coming because my early morning quiet time is now being routinely interrupted by two children in matching plaid pajamas who rush around the house in search of a visitor from the North Pole they creatively named “Elfie.”

I know he’s coming because when I’m sitting alone in the carpool line at my kids’ school enjoying the calm before the storm, I realize I’m humming songs about a snowman who dances and, apparently, smokes? Plus, there’s a car behind me in said carpool line sporting antlers and a nose. I know he’s coming because despite the fact that I do not have a job, I have something that needs to be accomplished every day this week . . . and the next . . . and, oh please help me, the next.

I know he’s coming because I have begun to stash things inside bags, inside boxes, inside drawers my children never open. I know he’s coming because my house is awash in red and green, embroidered footwear hangs from my mantel, and I just spent close to a hundred bucks on “baking items.” Yes, parking lots are full, stores are swamped, and bank accounts are dwindling.

It’s official.

He’s coming. I know he’s coming.

The signs appeared early and the magic is everywhere, flowing through the air, bringing twinkles to eyes and tingles to hearts; making the whole world seem as if it’s glowing. On the twenty-fifth day of December, in all his Christmas glory, he will arrive, and children of all ages will scream and shout and jump for joy. And lives all over the world will be forever transformed.

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. Did you think I was talking about Santa? I mean . . . I totally love Santa. Actually . . . I am Santa. Most of the moms I know are. But I wasn’t talking about Santa. Don’t get me wrong. I know Santa Claus brings packages and toys and fun and, temporarily, happiness. He even has the power to make children scream and shout and jump for joy. But Santa isn’t in the business of changing lives forever. Santa can’t bring grace and mercy and peace and salvation and eternal life.

Only He can. And He’s coming.

He won’t come in a sleigh. He won’t come down a chimney. He won’t leave gifts.

He is the gift.

The greatest gift. The ultimate gift. The only gift we'll ever really need.

And He’s coming.